


Cuff-links

by mijeli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Mark Kink, Infidelity, Kinky Harry, M/M, Obsession, wrist kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mijeli/pseuds/mijeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Ministry charity ball, and Harry had not expected to see Draco. Neither had he expected his own, queer ... obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuff-links

**Author's Note:**

> (This was written for the H/D kinkmeme over at livejournal and the kink "wrists" - it's rather unbeta'd, I'm afraid, but alas! no one's pointed me towards any grave mistakes yet.)

*** /// ***

Malfoy swirls his half-empty drink and leans against the bar. His back is stiff, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey tumbler.

No one's talking to him, and why would they? This is a charity ball hosted by the Ministry for war victims. It's nothing short of audacious for an ex-Death Eater to show up in their midst, but that's exactly what Malfoy had done. The deadly silence upon his entrance had quickly been followed by complete disregard.

Harry isn't listening to Ginny and Hermione talking. He's watching Malfoy. What was he thinking, coming here?

If Malfoy notices him looking, he doesn't show it. He tilts the glass again.

“Harry?” 

He looks down at Ginny's face, freckles faded behind soft beige powder. She's smiling. “I'll go outside with Hermione, if you don't mind.” The women share a look, then Hermione gives him that new-found, peaceful expression and puts one hand on her belly. Harry smiles back. He knows the baby drives his best friend away from crowds at the moment.

“Sure,” he says. “I'll be somewhere here.”

As they're leaving, Harry turns back to the bar. Malfoy is still standing there, drink in hand. He finishes it and Harry observes the barman consequently serving other people. Malfoy doesn't say anything, just throws a few coins onto the tablecloth.

“How dare he,” someone stage-whispers. Harry looks around as if it was about him, sees an elderly woman in a wheelchair, sees a child with wide eyes at her side. There's so much foreign magic in the room, some stunted, some yet undiscovered. Hostility engulfs him.

Harry pretends to look for someone and walks closer, just a little closer, to the bar. Malfoy's toying with his coins, stretching as if he needed the extra height; he doesn't. He's still tall and thin, like at sixteen. His body is youthful, but the way he carries it isn't. That steel-grey suit of his surely cost a fortune, and Harry wonders how he afforded it despite war reparations.

“Mr. Potter, sir!” someone adresses Harry and he turns, shakes hands, puts on his professional smile. It's getting easier, but it's still no fun.

When he turns back, the bar is empty but for Malfoy.

Harry holds his breath as Malfoy signals and the waiter finally gives in. That casual movement of Malfoy's hand – it opens something in Harry. Something hidden, like a secret passage to a secret chamber. He feels young and restless as Malfoy lowers his hand and the cuff doesn't slip back over his wrist. 

It's a white and slender wrist, framed by cuff-links glinting in the light of a thousand magical candles. Malfoy's skin almost blurs with his crisp white shirt.

Somewhere in the back of the room, the band picks up playing. Sparse applause. Malfoy doesn't turn his head but merely pushes the coins left and right in front of him. Sinews move under his skin, dance across the flesh of his hand. Across his wrist.

“One galleon,” says the waiter. It's more than he charges everyone else, but Harry isn't surprised, and it seems like Malfoy isn't either as he pays. He takes the drink with his right hand – palm facing Harry – and puts it down in front of him.

Harry turns around. Ginny and Hermione haven't returned yet.

He steps up to the bar and stands next to Malfoy, just as closely as he thinks is appropriate. “Malfoy,” he says, because he has to say something.

Malfoy's not even looking at him. “Potter,” he replies, indifferently. But Harry knows his voice, its tremors. “Not watched your fill yet?”

“What are you talking about?” Harry's mouth is dry and he signals the waiter. He doesn't have to wait for long and orders a pint, heat rising to his face. At his side, Malfoy is taking a long and slow sip.

When it becomes apparent that Malfoy isn't going to speak again, Harry looks at him. “Why did you come?”

Malfoy drinks, savours, swallows. His Adam's apple is prominent in his paper-white throat. Harry follows the movement of Malfoy's hand with his eyes. Lets them linger where wrist meets cuff-link, bony and fragile. If Malfoy could read his thoughts, he'd probably punch him in the face.

He isn't weak, Harry knows. He couldn't afford it any more.

But his wrists – his wrists are so thin. Graceful, like joints crafted from china.

“I'm a free man,” Malfoy says, in a voice echoing his schoolboy arrogance. And he is free, thanks to Harry's testimony, physically at least. Harry drinks and enjoys the rich taste of proper beer. In terms of drinks, those Ministry parties never disappoint.

“So you are.” 

Malfoy glances at him, then, and it is a look like a riddle. Despite his cool demeanour, his eyes are heated and questioning and make Harry want to know the answer. He won't look away; he has no reason to. It feels as if their eyes were igniting the glaring-white tablecloth in between them. Harry's heart is beating so fast he can feel it reverberate in his throat.

“Potter.” 

Harry casts a look over his shoulder, at the dancing couples and shaking of hands. Everything is loud, everything is in motion. He can spot neither Hermione nor any of the Weasleys.

When he turns back, Malfoy is toying with a napkin. Unfolds it. Spreads his palm on top. White on white on white on –

The dance of bones is entrancing.

With his other hand, Malfoy picks up the silver serviette ring and turns it back and forth. It looks small in his long fingers. The veins travelling down his wrist are so blue they're glowing.

Harry looks up as if caught, and he's caught. Malfoy smirks. As if there's something he knows, and he alone.

 

*** ***

 

Only when Malfoy's wrist is pressed tightly against Harry's face, Harry swallows his cock. Malfoy moans, quietly but with abandon, and curls his fingers around Harry's skull. “Fuck,” he curses, “yes. Potter.” Keeps repeating the name, like a reminder. Or a prayer.

Harry hums around his cock then focuses on steady breathing. It's been a while he's done that and he's tried not to think about it ever since. The musky smell of male arousal; the silky feel of another man's glans on his taste buds. He swirls his tongue. Malfoy's entire body is quivering. 

As Harry looks up – and it's quite a feat – he finds Malfoy with his eyes closed and mouth open. He's breathing heavily and his hard, heaving chest is the most erotic thing Harry has seen in – 

“Yes. Oh fuck, yes.” 

Malfoy never sounded like that. For a moment, Harry even forgets who he's sucking off. Then their eyes meet and it is like a hundred nameless memories swarming his mind, pulling him under.

Malfoy swallows and brings up his other hand. “Potter,” he says again. His voice has become so soft. Harry pulls back until only the head of Malfoy's cock is in his mouth, then it drops from his swollen lower lip. Malfoy looks at him, face pink and eyes glazed over.

Without a word, Harry takes Malfoy's left hand – the one branded with a Dark Mark hidden under crisp white fabric – and brings it to his lips. 

Malfoy chuckles low in his throat. “Who would've guessed,” he murmurs, as though to himself, but doesn't pull away. He must be boneless. Harry drags his mouth over the warm flesh of Malfoy's wrist, feels the veins protruding and if he focuses – he does, he tries – there's the frantic pulse of Malfoy's heart. The rush of blood right beneath his questioning lips.

He looks up at Malfoy, who has an enigmatic expression on his face. “Who indeed,” Harry replies. His voice sounds raw and alien. He grins, can't help it, before he bites down and captures Malfoy's obscene blood vessel between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Malfoy curses, but he doesn't pull nearly strong enough. Harry holds him tight, his arm, his hips. He wraps his hand around Malfoy's cock again and strokes him while sucking on his wrist. There's no rhythm or finesse to it. Something primal alone. There is no stopping. Downstairs, the band has switched to softer sounds and couples are supposedly dancing close and exchanging besotted looks.

Malfoy grips Harry's hair with his right hand and pulls, hard. Harry moans.

Garbled words spill from Malfoy's throat as he comes, bucking his hips and squirting semen on Harry's cheek and suit jacket.

Reluctantly, Harry lets go and finds a blossoming bruise on Malfoy's wrist. He smiles to himself, presses a kiss to the abused flesh then uses the back of Malfoy's hand to wipe the spunk off his face. Malfoy lets him. Harry will puzzle over that later.

“Going back to your fiancé?”

Harry gets up and meets Malfoy's eyes, which are lazy and glowing in the dimmed light of the first floor corridor. “Yeah. You?”

Malfoy tucks himself in. “None of your business.”

“Huh.” Harry steps closer – as close as he dares – and inhales Malfoy's scent once more. Malfoy smells like a man who showered with expensive product, then climaxed in a public place and got some on his trousers. He smells like a dangerous obsession and a graceful secret. Harry's throat hurts with desire.

I'd fuck you right here, Malfoy's eyes say, but he himself doesn't say anything like it. Just runs a hand through his ruffled blond hair.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Harry wants to know. He doesn't know. 

Malfoy pulls his sleeve down and closes the cuff-link. Maybe he can regain enough composure to order another drink down there, but Harry doubts that he will.

“Going to stick around and pretend nothing happened?” Malfoy asks.

Harry drags a hand across his mouth, almost instinctively. “Mhm,” he mumbles into skin. He'll ask Ginny to dance, but won't let her kiss him until he's had another pint; and then he'll have another to forget what he wants, who he wants, always does. 

He won't watch Malfoy's hands as he takes his coat and leaves. He won't.

 

*** /// ***


End file.
